


Hey Brother

by Shewolf_of_highgarden



Series: The Road to Recovery is a Long One (But At Least I Got a Killer Playlist) [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Former Faceless Arya, Gen, Identity Issues, Implication of Violence, Lord of Winterfell Bran, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sibling Bonding, arya is working through some stuff, mistress of whispers arya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:00:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24174004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shewolf_of_highgarden/pseuds/Shewolf_of_highgarden
Summary: In which a girl forgets and a raven reminds her
Relationships: Arya Stark & Bran Stark
Series: The Road to Recovery is a Long One (But At Least I Got a Killer Playlist) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744771
Comments: 7
Kudos: 43





	Hey Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Hey brother! There's an endless road to rediscover  
> Hey sister! Know the water's sweet but blood is thicker  
> Oh, if the sky comes falling down, for you  
> There's nothing in this world I wouldn't do  
> \- Avicii

A girl stands in the middle of a courtyard. A crumbling castle made of red stone looms large behind her, but does not give the relief of shade. People mill around her, going about their business. She hears them, a cacophony of voices. Knights talking about a brothel and who would win the next tourney. A little scullery maid rushing off to meet her sister who waits for her just beyond the gates. Lords walk together, head close, muttering something that a girl cannot quite make out. In their fine clothing it is clear that they are not from some lower house. Even if they are not a great house, they have coin enough. Coin is rather hard to come by these days. They must be courtiers for the big castle or advisers.

A girl listens, but she does not understand. What is she supposed to be doing with her knowledge?

The sun beats down and a girl feels sweat bead under her gown. A proper gown, not a cowl or the wool dress of a little mouse in the Riverland’s. It is not the red cloak of a mummer named Mercedene nor is it the simple dress of a Cat who sold shells along the canals. This dress is soft summer silk, liquid against skin. Snowflakes of silver thread dances along the hems. This dress belongs to someone, to some girl, but a girl cannot remember who.

The sun continues to beat down hot like dragon fire. No. Not that hot.

_Men and women and children are screaming, fleeing. Smokes covers the city. Not a moon ago dragon fire had lit the night sky as the North battled the Others. Dragon fire had forged weapon and burnt men of ice and dawn had come. Now dragons twirl above them in the night sky, not aiming for creatures of ice but each other. Down on the ground green fire shoots up from around them._

The slight breeze she feels is coming from somewhere out of the keep she is standing in, blowing dust about her feet. Some sea giving the people a break from the heat. The sea sounds nice. Cool water seems a comforting thing and so the girl leaves the red walls behind, venturing into the commotion of the city.

The people speak common toung. That is the first thing a girl picks up on. It is not like with Valyrian where there are two versions, one for the masters and one for the slaves. There are differences, though, but nothing major. Nothing a girl cannot learn. She listens for other languages as she walks, trying to follow the breeze to its source. In the Free Cities, and she can figure out that she is not there well enough, tons of languages were spoken all at once, especially at the docks. She hears bits of Myrish and a smattering of Pentoshi, but that is about it. No words from the far away shores of Yi Ti or the hissing words from Asshai.

The people here are not as kind as the Braavosi were to little blind girl called Beth, but they treat her well enough. People move when she walks by and some children wave to her. She waves back. It feels rights. Whoever’s face she wears is an important one, a known one. A girl worries that if she has forgotten her name, then she will have forgotten the mannerism of them as well.

Hesitantly, she brings a hand to the face. It is relatively smooth, not necessarily soft but not really rough, a cut or two here or there. It is longer, angular. She brings a finger to her lips, mimicking thoughtfulness. The bottom lip is fuller than the top and she feels rough spots on it that are not on the top. Someone bites their lips. But when? When they are thinking of a lover? When they are nervous?

She reaches another large opening in the city, a statute of a man at the center. Well, she thinks that it is a man. He is missing a head. A girl turns to look at it, studies it closely.

_Ser Illyn, get me his head_

She turns quickly and walks away as fast as she can without really running. Faceless Men run from nothing.

_Somewhere a crowd is cheering, rushing forward to get a better look. A girl is held tightly to a muscled body, sturdy enough that the crowd doesn’t move them. She can see nothing but the black cloth of his tunic._

She lifts hands to her ears, trying to tune out the too loud cheering. A girl tells herself that she is really doing it to study them. They are small ears, which is unsurprising, though there is a notch out of the left one. From what? A blade? A childhood accident? The lobes are pierced, the holes are not perfectly centered, but no baubles hang in them. Why pierce them if not to wear something in them?

_A head resting on another girl’s silken lap, a woman lounging across from them on a couch, watching. A tug. A needle. A pinch. A little golden hoop with a pearl left behind. A courtesan’s apprentice tries not to wince as she lays on her other side for her second gold hoop._

A girl drops her hands from her ears.

She is considering the hands as she reaches the water. They are small, it makes sense as she is small and she has never been anyone bigger than herself, and calloused. The nails are not really bitten, but are kept short and close. A girl who wears a silken dress light enough that hard work would stain it, but with hands that prove she can work. Her body proves she has worked. She is more muscled, though it is lean, than the other women she saw at the red castle and she is skinny as a staff.

_Who hit you girl? Did you see who hit you? A cat watches from above them._

She takes off her shoes, some kind of leather slipper and puts her feet in the water. It feels nice, the water is warm but still a comfort. She stares out at the horizon, wondering if she stared hard enough, she could see Braavos, a place that held so many strange memories for her. Of cats and courtesans and mummers and blood and darkness. Of a needle hiding below stones. She finds that she does not really miss Braavos.

She spends a bit more time enjoying her time by the shore before deciding to head back. She may be missed. She may have some job to do that she hasn’t done and now everything is ruined. What exactly is ruined she isn’t sure. She’s not sure who she is supposed to watching or giving the gift to and she isn’t sure why she was sent to Westeros.

…

She takes a different path back to the red castle, deciding to avoid the plaza with the large statue. When she reaches her destination, no one stops her. Some curtsy and some bow their heads and some send a scowl or a smile, but none stop her. As she gets closer, she finds that she cannot yet stand to be inside. She is not ready for that kind of confinement, even if it would be the best way to gain information. Instead she walks until she finds a forest, but in miniature.

The shade is a nice relief from the heat, not as nice as the sea but she’ll take it. She listens to birds chirp and lets her hands run over ferns and tree trucks as she passes them. She walks slowly, in no hurry to get back to what she needs to do. Mayhap the cool shade will jog her memory.

When she comes to what she thinks is the center of the forest she sees a tall oak, a small pool, and a young man sitting in a wheeled chair before the pool. He looks up when he hears her approach. She is about to make a hasty escape when he sees her and their eyes meet. First the spark of recognition and then something different, something deeper that a girl cannot place. Before she can leave the boy waves her over. She is tempted to ignore him, but he might have information to be gained. Maybe he knows who she is supposed to be.

“Hello,’ he says to her when she comes close, ‘What is your name?”

A girl bites her lip and looks to the sky for inspiration. What is the right answer? Cat? Beth? Mercy?

“What is your name?” the boy repeats and his eyes are so kind and so blue and so familiar a girl could cry.

“No one.” She responds automatically and almost moans because she should have found out what her name was. A girl should have lied instead of going with the truth. She reflexively wanted to give the right answer, the one that was constantly on the tip of her toung. No One is always the right answer.

Except this time.

“No.” The boy replies, shaking his head. No slap comes though, he merely smiles at her.

“Then who?” she asks, annoyed. She gave the right answer, the expected answer.

“If you sit with me, I’ll tell you.”

She is tempted to tell him no, but she needs to know. She can’t complete her mission, whatever it was, without knowing who she was supposed to be. With an amount of grace that Bellegre Otherys would have wept over, a girl plops down next to the boy and then looks at him expectantly.

“You are Arya Stark of Winterfell,’ the boy says, ‘my barely-older sister.”

_A young girl and a little boy are playing in the Gods Wood. “You have to listen to me,’ a girl shouts, ‘I’m older!”_

_“By barely a year!” the little boy calls back._

_The young girl pushes him into a snow bank._

“But who are you?”

“I am Bran Stark and you are Arya Stark,’ he says, ‘You are the youngest beloved daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully. You have two older brothers and two younger, and one sister who drives you mad and you her. You love each other very much.”

She looks at him skeptically. He seems rather fine with the fact that his sister could not remember him. She is unsure of what to do when he grabs her wrist, and it takes everything in her not to send the boy into the shallow pool. He must feel her tense for he loosens his grip.

“Look,’ he says pointing to the pool beside them and though a girl (Arya?) is wary, she looks anyway.

“Those eyes of yours are our Father’s eyes, the eyes of the Kings of Winter. Jon, our older brother, has them too.”

_Grey eyes, bigger than hers and somehow wearier, crinkle at the edges while trying to look stern. His little girl had snuck off from whatever new disaster the Septa was trying to teach her and crept to the stables. She was busying giving an apple to her favorite when her father showed up. He lectures her about running off while holding her up so she can give his favorite a carrot._

“You also have Jon’s hair.” Bran says, mussing her hair. A girl swats at his hand for it.

_A hand in a girl’s hair, but not mussing it. Gripping the back of her head, tucking it into a shoulder while the other arm holds her tight. The girl’s own hands buried in a thick black cloak; her eyes closed tight. The man who holds her is thanking every god that he has ever heard of that she is alive while barking orders at others. He holds her and doesn’t let go for a long time._

“You smile like Mother,’ this time a girl frowns, that sounds wrong. A girl is good at spotting lies and she can detect no falsehood, but it still feels wrong.

She chews on her lip.

“It’s true,’ Bran insists, noticing her weariness, ‘Uncle Edmure told you so himself. Who would know better than him except for the Blackfish?”

_A man with hair like fire and a beard to match looks tenderly at a girl. She has come to Riverrun to celebrate the second birthday of her niece, and to visit the home of her mother. She plays come into my castle and monsters and maidens with the little girl and it almost always devolves into a simple game of chase. The girl is tickling her newly caught niece when she notices the man. “What?” she demands of him. “You look so much like your mother when you smile,” he tells her softly, seriously._

“You are more than just looks too; you know. You’re an important person these days. Arya Underfoot has turned into Arya Stark, Princess of the North and Mistress of Whispers to Queen Daenerys.”

“Arya Stark. Mistress of Whispers.” She repeats, tasting it. It doesn’t’ sound wrong, not really.

“Don’t get too full of yourself, I still see more than you.”

“Barely,’ she says without thinking, ‘I don’t need trees to gather information.”

“Only wolves and cats.”

“I can’t really help that.”

“And I can?”

She gives him a look that makes him laugh. And oh, she knows that sound, remembers it. One of her earliest memories is of that sound. She has missed it. Even though she had a childhood full of it, she wants more of it. A girl wonders if this Bran has the right of it, doubting him even as she remembers him.

“Why have you come to the capital?” She asks, gathering information is her default setting.

“I want to talk to Jon about the wildlings. Without the Wall more are coming South.”

“Will you build a new one, Bran the Builder?”

“No,’ he says, ‘I don’t think we need the Wall anymore. But we need to learn to live with the wildlings.”

So, smart this Bran. She studies this supposed brother of hers who she remembers and forgets. He looks little like her. He taller, but that is not a surprise all things considered, but she finds that this fact rankles for some reason. His hair is like the man from Riverrun, though a bit more subdued. Somewhere between his red and her brown is Bran’s hair. His eyes are also somewhere in the middle. Not quite the blue of the man from Riverrun, but not really her grey either. He has the air of an old man around him, even if he is her junior.

“Do you remember the crypts?” Bran asks suddenly and a girl can only stare at him for a moment. She can conjure the image of dark stone steps in her mind, but not much else.

“No,’ She answers, truthfully, ‘Why?”

“I remember this time when Robb took us down there. He showed us each our spots, remember? Robb’s next to Mother and then Sansa and then you and then me and then Rickon.”

A girl thinks about it. She follows those dark steps down to the crypts.

She bites her lip. She doesn’t want to go to the crypts.

“Sansa came with us. Robb led us down and you held my hand,” Bran says taking a girl’s hand in his. His is almost more calloused than her own which is a surprise, ‘It was dark and Robb was the only one with a torch. He was telling us about the Blue Winter Rose that had hid in the crypts for decades…”

A girl goes with Bran, allowing herself to picture a northern crypt. Down the cold stone steps was packed earth with a walk way made of stone. It was slippery because of the ice. She tries to picture Robb next. She has Jon’s eyes and hair Bran said, so Robb must look like Bran or the man from Riverrun. She does her best to conjure blue eyes, red hair, and an easy smile. Something is wrong, though, something is wrong with his neck.

A girl decides to focus on something else. She tries to conjure up stone statues in her mind, but only one comes to the forefront. A man, tall and stern, with a large sword in hand stands by himself. That was wrong, there should have been another statue. There wasn’t though because his wife had died in the Riverlands (twice) and she had been given back to the water (twice). A girl decides to look somewhere else, a voice in her mind whispering that she is scared that an image of a woman who was and wasn’t her mother will appear in her mind.

_Hang them all. Burn them all. Kill them all._

A girl turns away quickly and focuses on a little Bran, the older will still waiting for her to affirm that she is listening. She grips his hand a little more firmly, his hand his bigger than hers but it wouldn’t have been then. It would have been her hand engulfing his, keeping tight grip because they were somewhere cold and dark and it was her job to look after him. She tries to image his face pudgier, his eyes rounder, his cheeks rosier. His smile, though, she thinks should remain unchanged.

She finds him in the crypts and nods to the Bran sitting with her in the little forest.

“Then Jon, covered head to toe in white powder jumped out at us…do you remember what happened next?”

“I don’t know…”

“Sansa screamed and ran for it. Robb was laughing himself silly and you hit Jon right in the stomach. C’mon. Your turn. What did you say to him?”

A girl stares at Bran and in her mind she stares at Jon, who looks like her but covered in white powder. Probably flour. He must have snuck into the kitchens for it. Jon looks like her though and while many of the other bodies would have looked like her, Jon really looks like her. For a moment she is out of the crypts and a girl grown and Jon is the one holding her close and thanking all the gods he knows that she lives still. That night (and many of the following) she will curl up by his side like she did when she was little and huddle for warmth and count on her big brother to fend off a nightmare.

His is the first face she can remember, of course a bit of flour doesn’t fool her. It fools Bran, though, because Bran is a baby and he gets confused. A girl grips Bran’s hand tighter, thinking, and suddenly she recognizes the hand. And as fast as Arya Stark had gone to sleep, she wakes back up.

“You scared the baby.” Arya recounts, a small smile playing on her face.

“I was four.”

“I was six.”

“I had less than a moon until five.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.”

“How would you know? You were four, you could barely count, stupid.”

“I checked.”

Arya grimaces at that. She is not a fan of Bran traversing time through trees. She is not the only one to get lost from time to time.

Arya looks up at the sky, the Gods Wood provides a nice canopy but bits of the sky are clear. It is starting to turn a bruised purple above them. Fuck.

“I missed my council meeting,’ She says, less upset about it than she should be, ‘Do you think Dany will kick me off of the council?”

“I think that would cause the third dance of the dragons. Jon enjoys having you around too much.”

“I dunno, might be a good thing. Its too hot here. I could go see what Sansa is up to in the Vale…or I can go see what Rickon has gotten away with in your absence.”

Bran grimaces at that before letting out a chuckle, “As tempting as it is to bring you back North, I think the council will be wroth with me.”

“Well, I am an important person,’ Arya says with a dramatic sigh, ‘the Mistress of Whispers to Queen Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Just a fancy way of saying Arya Underfoot.”

Arya lets out a laugh and they sit in silence. It is never easy coming back to herself, even if it has gotten a bit better. To remember who she was, was such a bitter sweet feelings. To remember Jon and Sansa and Bran and Rickon and their newfound pack was one of the best things in her life. It was hard to remember the rest of it. Being No One was so easy, so tempting. No One didn’t have a murdered father. No one hadn’t had to kill their own mother. No One had nothing.

And wasn’t that a lonely thought. To have nothing. Once upon Arya Stark had nothing but the clothes on her back. Her family had been scattered, her home had been left a ruin, and she had nowhere to go. Now, despite the second dance and the others and Cersei and Joffrey and all the rest, Arya wasn’t lonely. She had a family and a home and people who needed her. She doesn’t need to be No One…and apparently her little brother is not going to let her be No One again.

She squeezes his hand again.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“Your barely-younger brother.” He answers.

“Who are you?” He asks.

“Your much older sister.” She answers.

“But who are you?” He asks.

“I’m Arya Stark of Winterfell.”


End file.
